Lying Clocks and Top Hats
by SailingStars
Summary: Hatters are mad, and clocks lie. Arthur knows these facts are true. Still on the edge of sanity Arthur accepts a commission in spite of the fabric's maddening laughter. *Warning! Trigger warnings out the arse. Self destruction, mental state trigger warnings, gore, blood, be bloody careful reading this!
1. Tall Men Wear False Smiles

_Snip. Snip. Stitch. Thread._

Damn words were the only things cycling through Arthur's mind. Lately his work consumed him. Arthur didn't mind though; work was safe, work distracted him.

_Cut. Glue. Glue. Stitch. _

Sometimes when he worked Arthur would catch himself staring off into a vacant corner, looking at seemingly nothing. He wasn't always sure why or when he stopped working but each time he simply shrugged and continued to sew his hats.

As a hatter in London's poorer areas, Arthur was accustomed to expecting very little of life. He ate twice a day and that was enough. He slept above his shop and that was satisfactory. Luxury was foreign to him and often skeptically unwelcome. His schedule never varied; every morning, save Sunday, he would wake at exactly half past six. At noon he ate lunch. Past noon he worked until tea time, which was about six in the evening. Arthur was punctual, he never varied and never questioned the clock.

_Thread. Stitch. Cut….wait. _

Arthur looked up. He was doing it again. He caught himself staring off into blank space. Arthur sighed and continued to work on his current project. He had noticed these little "breaks" were becoming more frequent and more disturbing. Checking the clock Arthur realised he had been dozing for almost two minutes.

"Oh bollocks," Arthur huffed as he vigorously painted glue onto the brim of his latest design. "I'm sure I'm just tired or something."

Arthur was about to measure the velvet trim when the bell hanging over the door rang, signalling a customer.

"I'll be there in a minute," he stated as he carefully set the hat onto the working pedestal. He turned from his workroom and strode towards the front of the building. "Yes?" he asked as he entered the main room. Standing in front of Arthur was a slightly tall, rather well built man. Atop his head lay messy amber locks, his face decorated with perfectly contoured features. Arthur realised this sudden intimidation, his own frame being rather trim and bony as a result of the lack of food, and shifted awkwardly on his feet. "How can I help you, sir?" He managed to ask.

"Oh yes, hello there," the taller man answered, _He sounds as if he's from America. _"As you can see I don't have a hat. I won't go through the details, but I've run into some trouble and seemed to have lost it. Do you think you could be of service?" _However he speaks as if he were English._

Arthur took his time in answering. He became distracted by the man's voice. he didn't realise the honey dipped accent of the colonies was so enticing when pollinated within the English boarders. "Indeed, you may look around the shop if you like," he finally said. "I'm sorry stock is a tad low, I've come into a few run-ins with materials." Arthur hesitated as he watched the other man's blue eyes scan the walls and show windows. "Is there something particular you had in mind?"

The man ceased his visual tour and focused on Arthur. "No, not really. I wasn't too attached to my old one, I guess that's why I lost it," the man then let out the most charismatic laugh Arthur had ever heard. "You're the expert, so please," the man gestured to Arthur. "Will you tailor a hat for me?"

Arthur shifted awkwardly again. It was getting hard for him to focus on the meaning of the words the man spoke. _The bloody hell is wrong with me?_ Arthur thought as he looked up into sky blue eyes. "I suppose," he finally said. It had been a few months since his last commission. "Do you know what you would like? There are many styles to choose from, and the functions of hats vary, so consider that in your decision. If you plan to walk in the rain, a hat with a flatter brim will not collect water. If you plan to walk in the sun you will want a hat with a broader brim to keep the sun from your eyes."

"I didn't know so much went into making hats!" _That glorious laugh again. _"Please, have your way with the design and so forth. I won't need it until the end of the month.

Arthur glanced towards his back room, gauging the time it would take to complete two projects. "I shall do my best, sir-"

"Alfred," the man interrupted as he stuck out a hand. "Alfred Jones."

Arthur took the mans hand and tentatively shook it. Arthur felt the strength in Alfred's grip and tried to match the confidence. "Good afternoon, Alfred Jones." Arthur released his grip on Alfred's hand. "Do you have an idea of how much you would like to spend on this hat?"

Alfred paused and looked upwards. "Well, no. Not really." He looked back at Arthur. "Spend as much as you like. It's quality I'm looking for, really," he smiled.

"I see, well I'll certainly do my best, Alfred. Can I help you with anything else while you're here?" Arthur asked. A part of him hoped Alfred stayed, and yet almost all of him wanted Alfred to leave. It wasn't often the aristocracy wandered into the slums of London, and when they did it almost always meant trouble_. _

"No," Alfred responded. "I must be going, but it was a pleasure to meet you…um.."

"Arthur, Arthur Kirkland." The reply was short and factual. Arthur was too cynical to trust that anyone of that status would simply wander into his part of town without a hidden motive.

"Oh," _That damn laugh. Is he bloody mocking me? _"It was a pleasure to meet you, Arthur Kirkland."

Alfred left soon afterwards with the bell above the door ringing until silence swallowed the room. Arthur hadn't felt this type of silence before. This silence was cold, it laughed at his inability to keep company. It mocked the poor fire that did nothing to heat the building. Arthur shook his head and dismissed the creeping thoughts.

"I hate him," Arthur said hoping to scatter the silence. Noticing the eeriness of his own voice, Arthur sighed and walked back towards his workroom. It was getting late and the tea had run out days ago. Arthur decided there was nothing more he could do to occupy himself, besides, work distracted him. Work was safe.


	2. Laughing Moons

That night Arthur slept in a shivering ball, huddled under his paper-thin blanket. The silence turned colder as he thought of the warm man that walked into his shop just a few hours previous. Arthur couldn't figure out a solution to this coincidence. _Why would he come to see me about a hat? _He thought as he laid awake, moonlight pulsing in and out of the room _He was obviously wealthy, he bloody came from America, after all. How did he even find my shop? I'm in the bloody backstreets of this damn cold alleyway. _Arthur turned over to warm the other side of his body. His thoughts began giving him a headache. The smell of iron always present in his nose. He wasn't sure why this new phenomena happened, but like everything else, he blamed it on his insomnia and overworking.

_I hate him. _He thought as he shivered under the blanket.

_He wants me to take his bait of false hope._

_He want's to watch me fail. _

_He wants me to fail. _

_I hate him. _

_He doesn't shiver in the cold every night. _

_He doesn't hear these voices in his head. _

_He doesn't work for a damn pound at the end of the week. _

_So I hate him. _

_I hate his pompous arse. _

_He's mocking me. _

_He's laughing at me in the darkness right now._

Those thoughts continued to run through his head that night, lulling him to sleep. The coldness of the room helped a little, numbing him to the haunting surroundings. Arthur hated his room at night. The tattered curtains did little to block out the smiling moon. He hated the way his dresser stared at him and the way the floorboards creaked on their own. He hated the sight of the end of his bed, two wooden posts that guarded his prison. Even the door seemed to taunt him, looming taller than anything in the sparse room.

Sometime Arthur would wake in the middle of the night and gaze at the ticking clock atop his dresser. Even the clock seemed to lie to him these days. What seemed like hours passed by in minutes. Arthur decided the clock was playing games with him, laughing at the sigh he would give when he saw he had to endure the darkness for hours more. He decided the clock wanted a laugh, just like the rest of his furniture, so Arthur played along until he couldn't stand the laughing anymore and forced himself to dreamless sleep.

The next morning, Arthur woke slowly, his body cold and unwilling to move. The winter weather was approaching quicker than he anticipated and he hadn't had time or the money to purchase more coal for his fire. "Damn it all," he said as he forced his limbs over the edge of the bed. His thinly clothed body was pierced by the morning air and as he coughed into his hands he noticed how visible his breath was.

He looked at the clock sitting on the dresser and nodded at the time. _Right on schedule. _He thought as he went to retrieve a clean button down shirt and fresh trousers. _I guess the clock grew tired of the game._ Once clothed, Arthur carefully walked down the creaking steps from his flat and into his workshop.

He scanned the table with scraps of wool and various tools strewn across the surface. Funny. He didn't remember ever being that disorganised. He dismissed the disorder to lack of concentration as he began separating things that were useless and things that were in progress. As he moved his hands across the various fabrics and ribbons he suddenly remembered the day before, and the promise he made to a certain pompous Alfred Jones.

Arthur sighed. Paper was expensive and disposable. Arthur preferred drawing directly on his work area, he claimed it helped him think in terms of actual size rather than scales. He took a piece of chalk from the drawer under the table and carefully cleared a space on top. From there he went to work sketching and designing a hat that would surely make any hatter envious, as well as any aristocrat turn their heads.

_Arc. Pattern. Proportion._

Arthur continued to sketch in an almost trance-like state. Unaware to his surroundings he began making his lines more defined, becoming satisfied with the design and construction of the hat. He hummed to himself as he worked, the tune of some old nursery rhyme vibrating deep in his throat. The distant clock ticked ominously in time to his song and he laughed at the sudden thought of the clock singing with him.

_Mark. Line. Match. Brim. _

Arthur finished his design just as the clock struck ten. He stood back and looked at his finished concept. "I do think that will satisfy that sick bastard's intentions," he stated to no one.

He smiled as he looked at the mess of chalk outlines. _Funny_, he thought. _I never thought spite would be such a persuasive motivator. _He laughed to himself and tipped his head as he thought of the bastard wearing this hat, not knowing the hatred that went into creating it. A morbid thought popped into Arthur's mind. He wanted to see his hatred swallow Alfred. He wanted too see Alfred die in that hat. For his creation to follow that blasted aristocrat into the coffin and into the ground. _Die with me. _He thought.

It was odd. Arthur never had such strange thoughts before. He shook his head and blamed the moment of absurd thoughts on the coldness of the room. He couldn't think strait because of the temperature. That must be it.

He turned to his work table. Quickly deciding to dismiss his previous project and begin work on the finest of them all.


	3. Fabric That Smiles Dies in Laughter

Over the next few days Arthur gathered the materials for the hat, making sure to pay the top price for the fabrics. He wanted to drain Alfred of the money he did nothing to earn. He wanted to take part in his downfall. Arthur smiled at each pound passed and each coin traded for a material. He laughed between each step and paid no mind to those who stared as he passed by.

Arthur laughed as he walked back to his shop, materials in hand. He threw the basket of fabrics onto his work table and felt his face heat up at the thought of those fabrics being buried with that smug bastard. He continued to smile at the materials as he laid them on the table, but then he questioned his motives.

"Perhaps," he said to himself. Lately his thoughts had become more vocal. "Heh, perhaps I don't hate the bastard," he continued as he stared at the somewhat smudged chalk drawing on the table. "No, of course you do," he answered himself, unsure why he suddenly felt the need to. "He hasn't worked a day for those clothes on his back." He then laughed at the thought of the man trying to do any physical labour, even with the aid of his toned stature. "Then he walks in here, willing to throw money at me like some kind of whore to make him a damn hat he doesn't even know the function of…what game is he playing with me?"

Arthur thought of his furniture and compared them to Alfred. He decided this aristocrat was indeed like his dresser, staring at him, waiting for him to fail. He decided Alfred was like the clock, lying to him and playing games of mock sympathy. Alfred was the bedposts in his room, always there, watching and waiting.

Arthur hit is palm on the table in response to his conclusion. "Damn him," he finally said. He looked at the basket of wool parts and felt baubles. Filled with unwanted and unwelcome thoughts, he overturned it in a single motion.

He took a few deep breaths and tried to calm his heart. It was odd. In the past few weeks Arthur had become out of breath more easily. He blamed the majority of his health on the cold and the shortness of breath on the bitterness of the winter air in his lungs. He cursed the winter winds for the redness of his face and hands when he looked in the mirror; he even shunned the smiling moon for his insomnia, but nothing, nothing was as bad as the lying clock.

"Might as well just get this over with," he told himself, bringing his thoughts back to the present task. He stood at the table and retrieved the objects he had thrown from the basket. From there he began measuring and cutting the fabrics to match the pattern he scrawled on the table.

Progress was slow. Throughout the period of measuring and outlining Arthur continued to catch himself zoning in and out of concentration. The room was growing darker as the light from the day began to fade. He lit a few candles and told himself to keep working if he wanted to stay on schedule. As the shadows grew larger Arthur noticed the lack of progress he continued to make. The clock was about to strike midnight when Arthur caught himself spacing out again.

"It's all these damn breaks!" Arthur shouted at nothing. He buried his face in his hands and rubbed his tired eyes. "It's his fault," he said into his cold palms. "It's his bloody fault! What is the damn point of this anymore?" He blinked as the room seemed to grow darker despite the lying clock's chiming.

Only the scattered pieces of wool fabric remained visible in the candlelight. Arthur pushed these pieces together to made a little wool pile that seemed larger because of its dancing shadow. "He wants to see you fail," he whispered to himself. "He won't even pay y-Go to hell!" Arthur screamed at his own voice.

He noticed his conversations more often now. Arthur couldn't remember ever having talked to himself so much. Was it something new? Or was it always there and just never noticed. He couldn't remember anymore. Arthur laughed at his own pathetic state. "He wants to see me fail?" He whispered to the dancing candle flame. He grinned, "Not a chance in hell. I hate that bastard. I'll make him this damn hat if it kills me." He then rubbed his face with his hands and stared back at the materials.

_Pin. Cut. Snip. Stitch. _

Again those words echoed through his ears. The clock ticked in the background, but Arthur didn't hear it. He was too focused on the task at hand. Sitting in the dark room with the candle wax dripping onto the table, Arthur laughed. His manic state fuelled his determination.

Arthur slashed the fabric with a twisted smile. His hands shook with lack of sleep. He hummed various rhyming words and whispered secrets to the darkness. Unaware of the hour Arthur continued to work, always debating his feelings towards Alfred. In one moment he loved the man for giving him work and food money. In the next moment he despised the man, questioning every gesture, every second of his presence in the shop. Luxury was rare, so what game was he playing?

Over the next two weeks Arthur's mind had split in two. The deadline for the hat was approaching and he continued to question everything, even the shadows that mocked his progress. Some nights Arthur would just sit and stare at the laughing fabric. Some nights he would laugh with it as he stabbed it with the needle and thread. _That'll shut it up. _He thought in those moments.

A bloody lovely idea popped into Arthur's head. "I'll make sure this man dies with me. Ha! I don't even know why I hate him. Oh yes you do. No, he's just a bloke. No, he's lying to you. He's mocking you even now." Arthur looked at the fabric where a loose stitch was waiting to be pulled tight. The crisscrossed threads laughed at Arthur. He smiled back at them with a lopsided grin. "Yes," he said. "I'll make sure your mocking face dies with me."

Arthur calmly opened the drawer where he kept his tools. He began rummaging and throwing various items against the walls until he found what he was looking for. Carefully he pulled the stitch tight, shutting it up for a moment. He took the pair of scissors he acquired from the drawer and began cutting more fabric.

Arthur laughed into the darkness. "This is personal now, you see," he told the almost complete top hat. He cut the fabric with precision and calmness. He then lay the blade to his wrist. The same precision and calmness. Again Arthur laughed as he felt the chill of the blade glide along his hot skin. He whispered rhyming words to the fabric in his own morbid lullaby. "Poetic isn't it?" He asked the hat. "Because, you see, this blade works both ways," he licked his wrist. "Something so beautiful was made with something so destructive. The best thing is, no one will ever know. It's funny, you should be laughing!" He shouted to the hat. "No, I didn't think you would understand. You see, I created you. I signed you with my blood." Arthur continued to grin, but the hat was not laughing anymore. "Why aren't you laughing, you damn hat!" His voiced wavered as he screamed those words, the room suddenly felt colder to him.

Arthur ignored the hat now, he was pleased with his morbid secret. He told the darkness in the corner of his eye of this little incident. He thought of Alfred wearing the hat proudly around the town square, unknowing of the twisted secrets that lay behind its production. "That bastard," he spat in the middle of his conversation with the shadows. "He won't even know of this little secret."

Arthur continued to laugh in a deranged state as he worked on the hat through the night. In the morning he didn't remember when he had gone to sleep or if he even slept. All he knew was he suddenly found himself, facedown on the table, his wrist scabbed over and dried blood in circles under his arm. The hat was sitting on the working pedestal in a ray of sun.

Arthur lifted his head with an ache in his neck. "Funny," he said to the hat. "Even now you mock me. You stand in the sun as I bow before you. You will fit perfectly with that bastard of a man. In fact, he should be picking you up today."

Arthur quickly grabbed a piece of paper, saved from weeks ago. He wanted this paper or a special occasion and what was more special than this? He took a jar of ink and a pen and began writing his note to Alfred. Once he was satisfied with the message he picked up the hat and note. He glanced at the clock out of habit more than curiosity. Arthur had no care for time anymore, it lied to him anyway.

With note and hat in hand Arthur walked to the front shop where sunlight burst through the unclean show windows. He set the hat on a pedestal atop the counter and placed the note beside it. He smiled once more at the proud hat, bid it farewell, then entered his workroom to finish what he had started.

Arthur sat in his creaking wooden chair and grabbed the scissors. He stared at them with admiration and hatred. He laughed at the blades edges, his reflection visible in the metal razors. With a smile and a tip of his head he cut into his wrist with the same care and precision he used to make that bastard's hat. The lonely nights were over, the coldness of the dark winter finished forever. The laughing would cease and the starvation would end. No more lying clocks.

"Oh Alfred," he whispered to nothing once more. "I do hope you enjoy that damn hat." He laughed again, and closed his eyes. "I really did go through so much trouble to make it perfect." The numbness was already seeping in. The fabrics no longer mocked him, and the hunger in his stomach was lost. He heard the scissors hit the wooden floor as he inhaled deeply.

_Dark. Numb. Peace. _


	4. Enjoy Its Smile

_Alfred Jones, _

_ I think this hat should suit you nicely. The brim is wide enough for both sun and rain so you mustn't worry about the weather. The material is of the finest wool and should last for years to come. I do hope you find everything to your satisfaction. _

_-Arthur Kirkland _

_P.S. Don't worry about the cost, I've taken care of everything. Enjoy. The hat has a great smile._

* * *

**Notes: **Thanks for reading this far! (If you did) This was my first fanfic so I hope it wasn't too terrible. I'm not sure if I'm going to continue it with Alfred or not. I guess I will if enough of you ask for it. Again, thanks for reading!


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